


Batter

by GingerEl



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Baking, Baking Mishap, Birthday, Cake, Cuddling, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Minor Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29332908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerEl/pseuds/GingerEl
Summary: “I think you’re supposed to sort of mash them together,” Crowe puts in from her perch on the one counter-top Aranea’s not using. She’d said she wasn’t going to help which Aranea said was good because it’s supposed to be for her but then Crowe had gone ahead and turned the over on anyway because Aranea had no idea pre-heating the oven was even a thing and Ignis hadn’t thought to mention it.Which either meant he was being purposefully unhelpful or he has more faith in Aranea than he should.“Like with a fork?” Aranea asks.Alternatively: The world might have gone to ruin but Crowe still deserves a birthday cake.Written for FFXV Rare Pair Week 2021 | Day 3 - Baking Disaster
Relationships: Crowe Altius/Aranea Highwind
Kudos: 5
Collections: FFXV Rare Pairs Week 2021





	Batter

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Crowe lives but somehow not much else is different. I just wanted to write my girls older and even more tired of bullshit.

Aranea is, well, she’s _old_. Or she feels it most days.

They’re nine years into this Gods forsaken long night and she’s staring forty in the face. Crowe isn’t much better off but she is _younger_ and she likes to tease Aranea for the stiffness in her hip when it rains and the way her knee cracks louder than their alarm clock most ‘mornings’.

She’d stopped keeping track of dates a while back - it’s hard to track the passage of a single day when the sky remains the same murky blackness above their heads every hour of the day. Aranea doesn’t know how anyone expects her to keep track of what _month_ it is, let alone day. Prompto always seems to know, and she suspects the kid - though _he’s_ almost thirty now and barely a _kid_ any longer - has been marking the days off somewhere, crafting little calenders to count the days since he last saw his best friend.

This endless night had given her nothing.

 _Almost_ nothing.

Nothing but Crowe.

Which is actually _quite a lot_ , when Aranea thinks about it.

Aranea’s not one for flowery words or waxing poetic over her partner's smile but she _can_ admit that she loves Crowe. Very much. She won’t always say it and sometimes she still struggles to _show_ it but Crowe never gets much more upset with her than rolling her eyes and not bothering to warm up her feet in the blankets before pressing them up against the back of Aranea’s calves.

Which means it’s with no real heat _or_ disappointment that Crowe turns to her at almost ten o’clock at ‘night’ and says, “You know it's my birthday today?”

Aranea had _not_ known. She hadn’t forgotten as such, she could rattle off what say and what month Crowe's birthday _is_ but, as before, she just has no idea what day of the month they're on.

“No,” Aranea admits, “You should have said this morning -”

Crowe shrugs and finishes rifling in their refrigerator - bulky with a light that blinks continuously - turning to Aranea with a beer bottle clutched in each hand.

“I got these from Scientia,” Crowe says, “Don’t tell him I told you but he has a stash of _luxuries_ for special occasions.”

Aranea takes the bottle extended out to her with no small amount of guilt. She wishes she’d remembered so she could have done something _herself_ , even if it was only getting Crowe these beers _for_ her. Aranea wishes she’d done more, whatever even passes for a special gesture these days.

“It was cheap and gross even _before_ it was seven years out of date but, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?” Crowe teases.

Aranea nods and then sets the bottle down on their counter.

“I have to go out,” Aranea says, “But I’ll be back before your beer is warm, I promise.”

“Nea…” Crowe murmurs and it’s the first time this evening that she’s actually sounded disappointed.

Aranea brushes a kiss across her cheek bone, finer and sharper than ever since the food rations really started hitting hard.

“You’ll hardly miss me,” Aranea reassures, “Trust me?”

Crowe sighs and manages a half smile, “Always.”

Aranea ducks out of their apartment - wincing at the squeak of their hinge - once again considering how luck she was to find Crowe. Not just find her but to _be_ with her. Aranea had been loyal to the people that had taken _everything_ from her for so long, had been loyal _while_ those people had taken things from her - ravaged her homeland then assaulted her knew home. Crowe hadn’t been in the city when Insomnia fell but she’d lost enough that day.

Aranea is glad _she_ wasn’t there. She’s not sure even Crowe’s forgiving heart could have overlooked _that_ transgression.

The boys don’t live far from them - _no one_ lives far from them with the city as cramped and populated as it is - so Aranea is rapping her knuckles against their front door in just a small handful of minutes, waiting impatiently for one of them to open up.

It’s Prompto that greets her, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and bags under his eyes almost as dark as his Crownsguard uniform.

“Hey, Nea,” he says, worlds a little garbled, “Did somethin’ happen?”

Aranea shakes her head, “No kid, your boyfriend home?”

Prompto raises his eyebrows.

“The smart one,” Aranea clarifies.

“ _Fuck you too_ ,” Gladio calls from where Aranea knows the bedroom to be.

“Funny you knew I wasn’t talking about you though, huh, big guy?” Aranea yells back.

Prompto smiles around his tooth brush and waves her in.

Ignis _is_ home, sat in their cramped living room with a pair of patterned jeans spread over his lap. It surprises her not even a little that Ignis is the one responsible for maintaining their wardrobe despite being _literally_ blind.

“Aranea,” Ignis says warmly, “How can I help? It’s quite late for a social call.”

Aranea _considers_ briefly posturing some sort of fabricated excuse but she _knows_ Ignis by now and he always respects blunt honestly over anything else.

“I want to make a cake for Crowe and I know you have the goods,” Aranea says.

She hears the sound of Prompto spitting into the bathroom sink followed quickly by his laugh.

“Nea you can’t bake,” he calls.

“How hard can it be?” she asks.

Ignis half smiles before he manages to temper it down again.

“I might be able to give you a share of the flour we’ve managed to produce,” Ignis says, “Though we just used the last of our eggs.”

“We have eggs,” Aranea says.

“Prompto, darling,” Ignis calls and Prompto appears in the doorway, face scrubbed pink and hair at his forehead a little damp. Prompto doesn't announce himself but Ignis seems to know he’s come back anyway, “If I give you a list of things will you make Aranea up a bag?”

“Sure thing, Iggy,” Prompto says happily.

“I assume it would be helpful if I wrote the recipe out for you?” Ignis asks her.

Begrudgingly Aranea admits, “Yes.”

Prompto snickers and when Aranea glares at him he only responds by sticking out his tongue. _Brat_. But gods does she love the little shit.

“I’ll also need to borrow a pan,” Aranea says, remembering _just_ before enough time has passed for it to be rude to add, “If that’s okay?”

Ignis doesn’t bother to hide his smile this time.

-

“Thank the Hydrean you’re back,” Crowe says the moment she gets the door shoved poem, “I cannot drink this terrible beer alone a moment longer - what the fuck is all that?”

“I went and got some stuff to make you a cake,” Aranea says.

Crowe blinks slowly.

“A birthday cake,” Aranea clarifies.

Crowe takes a swallow of her beer, face pulling uncomfortably.

“Babe,” she says slowly, “You can’t bake.”

Aranea rolls her eyes, and says, again, “How hard can it be?”

Pretty hard it turns out.

Aranea’s never had to _cream together butter and sugar_ once before in her life.

She takes a swig of her beer - it is _awful_ \- and dumps the two ingredients into the bowl.

“I think you’re supposed to sort of mash them together,” Crowe puts in from her perch on the one counter-top Aranea’s not using. She’d said she wasn’t going to help which Aranea said was _good_ because it’s supposed to be _for_ her but then Crowe had gone ahead and turned the over on anyway because Aranea had no idea _pre-heating_ the oven was even a thing and Ignis hadn’t thought to mention it.

Which either meant he was being purposefully unhelpful or he has more faith in Aranea than he should.

“Like with a fork?” Aranea asks.

“I think with a spoon,” Crowe says. She sounds _far_ too amused and Aranea is intensely reconsidering this whole being in love with her thing.

Aranea opens their cutlery drawer and grabs one of their spoons but drops it again when Crowe laughs.

“What?”

“A _wooden_ spoon, babe,” Crowe says.

“Right,” Aranea says and she _just now_ remembers seeing pictures of such a thing when she was a kid. She doesn’t know if she’s ever actually _seen_ someone bake a cake in real life.

Don’t get her wrong, she’s _eaten_ cake. Aranea just prefers her food to be convenient - made for her in exchange for legal tender, goods or services. Whatever she has to do to _not_ make it herself.

Aranea holds the bowl in one hand and starts to push at the butter with one of their wooden spoons. Not _much_ happens and she has to stab at it a few times to break it up into smaller chunks before the butter and the sugar even _look_ like their combining.

“Good we have butter again,” Crowe says, “Bless Sania.”

“Hmm,” Aranea agrees. How is her arm _hurting_? She kills things for a living, has been doing it for _decades_ at this mount. Astrals she _is_ getting old.

“Specs said something about the flour,” Aranea says absently. Does this looked _creamed_ yet?

Crowe nudges her with her beer bottle, chilled glass making her jump.

“What?” Aranea says.

“ _What_ did Ignis say about the flour?”

“Oh - uh. Something about the grind being not as fine or something. So if there’s texture issues it might not be my fault.”

Crowe nods and says, “Drink more beer. Then nothing will matter.”

“Okay but we don’t have enough for it to get us to happy _nothing matters land_ ,” Aranea teases. She does however pick up the bottle again and clink it against her girlfriend’s, taking another swig or the bitter half flat liquid.

“Okay I think that’s good,” Aranea says. Crowe says nothing, “Eggs.”

 _Eggs_ Aranea can do. She gets up first in the morning so breakfast is usually her job. She can break eggs into a bowl with next to no shell being included in the party.

When she tries to mix them in with the butter and sugar mixture however they look _weird_. They never quite bind with the mixture and Aranea worries she’s just ruined the whole thing.

Crowe picks up the recipe from the side and after a moment where all Aranea can focus on is the crinkling of the paper she says, “Ignis made a note. You should add in a little flour if the eggs appear to be curdling.”

So Aranea _does_. Dumping in a large spoonful of flour to the bowl and eagerly beating it together. And it _works_. The mix slowly starts to look like a batter and with no other _major_ mishaps - “Flower goes _in_ the bowl, Nea” - Aranea gets a mostly smooth batter prepared and ready in her bowl.

She drags Ignis’ tin towards her and pours the cake batter in with no preamble, scraping as much of it down off the sides of the bowl as possible and giving it a little shake to settle evenly. Aranea pulls open the oven door and slides the pan onto a shelf, eager to just get it out of her sight.

Crowe moves behind her as she washes up, leaning lazily against her back while the smell of cooking sugar slowly fills their little apartment.

“You get everything you want?” Aranea asks her.

“Hmm? Beer, my best girl and now _cake_ \- what more could I want?” Crowe slips one of her hands beneath the t-shirt Aranea is wearing, slightly chilled fingers right up against the flesh of her stomach.

“There was actual meat in the canteen today too,” Aranea reminds her.

“That too.”

After twenty minutes the buzzer goes off and Aranea grabs a dish towel to wrap over her hand as she pulls the pan free.

It looks actually kind of okay.

It’s a little lopsided but Crowe’s been complaining their ovens off centre for _months_ now so maybe she couldn't have helped it. Its a decent colour, light golden brown and when Aranea tests the middle to see if it’s cooked the tip of the knife comes away clean.

“Well done, babe,” Crowe says and Aranea tries to not to feel _too_ pleased.

They have to leave it for a good ten minutes to cool down, during which time Crowe replaces their now-empty beers with strong tea.

Aranea slots a plate over the top of the cake pan and spins it over so the cake falls out.

Nothing happens.

She turns it back over, running her knife around the edge and scraping the cake off the edges of the tin as a mounting sense of dread fills her. Stubbornly she tries again, flipping the tin over to give it a chance to fall onto the plate.

Nothing.

Aranea gives it a little shake and still _nothing_.

“It’s stuck,” she admits to Crowe.

“You didn’t grease the pan?”

Aranea grabs the recipe again but there’s _nothing_ on it about that. Once again, Ignis having more trust in her non-combative abilities than any man should.

“We can just eat it out of the pan,” Crowe suggests and she even steps forward as though to follow through on the threat.

“No,” Aranea says, “I’m getting this out of the pan.”

Aranea gets the cake out of the pan.

In pieces.

It’s not pretty, but she sneaks a morsel while trying to arrange the misshapen chunks of cake attractively on a plate and it tastes _okay_ , her worries about the texture mostly unfounded.

“Sorry there’s no toppings,” Aranea says, holding the plate out towards her. Crowe shrugs, looking amused and fond enough to make Aranea’s face warm. Her girlfriend pinches off a tiny piece to pop in her mouth.

“We have jam,” Crowe says, “You fill cakes with jam, right?”

So Aranea waves Crowe off to _get comfy_ on their lumpy couch and digs out the wild-berry preserve from the fridge. There’s no hope for neatness any more so she simply splits each chunk down the middle, lathers it with jam and sandwiches it all back together.

It's almost midnight when Aranea pads over to the cough, to push the plate into Crowe's hands and settle down next to her, pulling her legs up into her lap to massage her calves.

It's Crowe’s birthday _and_ she had to spend most of the day on her feet. It’s the least Aranea can do.

“Happy Birthday,” Aranea says.

“Thanks.”

Crowe feeds herself some cake, looking pleased but not _insultingly_ surprised then breaks off a bit between her fingers and feeds it to Aranea before returning to her own appetite.

It’s _good_ actually, saved Aranea thinks by the preserve. At least it’s interesting this way. And Crowe seems to be enjoying it. Which is all that Aranea _really_ wanted.

“Sorry I didn’t remember until you told me,” Aranea says.

Crowe shrugs and Aranea reaches out to wipe a little jam from the corner of her mouth.

“Nea, babe. You are exactly the woman I fell in love with and I don’t want you any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I lurk most days on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Ginger_El_) where you can come say hi!
> 
> No rare pair for the prompts tomorrow but I do have something planned! 📸🌙🎣


End file.
